"the souls mounting up to God
Went by her like thin flames."
This is not astronomy nor theology, nor any of the things we know all
about--it is only poetry.
Let no one trouble me by attempting to elucidate "Childe Roland to the
Dark Tower came." I do not care for a Baedeker. I prefer to lose my way.
I love the darkness rather than light. I do not care for a topographical
chart of the hills that
"like giants at a hunting lay,
Chin upon hand."
The mood in which we enjoy such poetry is that described in Emerson's
"Forerunners."
"Long I followed happy guides,
I could never reach their sides.
* * * * *
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
* * * * *
On eastern hills I see their smokes,
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I met many travelers
Who the road had surely kept:
They saw not my fine revelers."
If our thoughts make haste to join these "fine revelers," rejoicing in
the sense of freedom and mystery, delighting in the mist and the wind,
careless of attaining so that we may follow the shining trails, all is
well.
As there are poems which are not meant to be understood, so there are
poems that are not meant to be read; that is, to be read through. There
is Keats's "Endymion," for instance. I have never been able to get on
with it. Yet it is delightful,--that is the very reason why I do not
care to get on with it. Wherever I begin, I feel that I might as well
stay where I am. It is a sweet wilderness into which the reader is
introduced.
"Paths there were many,
Winding through palmy fern and rushes fenny
And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly
To a wide lawn...
Who could tell
The freshness of the space of heaven above,
Edged round with dark tree-tops?--through which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often, too,
A little cloud would move across the blue."
We are brought into the very midst of this pleasantness. Deep in the
wood we see fair faces and garments white. We see the shepherds coming
to the woodland altar.
"A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
As may be read of in Arcadian books;
Such as sat list'ning round Apollo's pipe
When the great deity, for earth too ripe,
Let his divinity o'erflowing die
In music, through the vales of Thessaly."
We see the venerable priest pouring out the sweet-scented wine, and then
we see the young Endymion himself:--
"He seemed
To common lookers-on like one who dreamed
Of idleness in groves Elysian."
What happened next? What did Endymion do? Really, I do not know. It is
so much pleasanter, at this point, to close the book, and dream "of
idleness in groves Elysian." The chances are that when one turns to the
poem again he will not begin where he left off, but at the beginning,
and read as if he had never read it before; or rather, with more
enjoyment because he has read it so many times:--
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."